To **** or not to ****, that’s the ******* question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the bowels to suffer
The twists and turns of outrageous rumblings
Or to take action against a bellyful of gas,
And by farting pump one out? To strain, to bloat
No more; and by a mighty outburst we’ll end
The gut’s ache, and the thousand natural stenches
That the **** is heir to, 'tis a resolution
Right devoutly to be wish'd. To ****, to ****!
But perchance to ****, there's the ******* problem;
For in that mighty **** of doom what turds may come,
When we have let the little beauty out from mortal tail,
Must give us pause; there's the danger
That makes calamity of the farter’s life;
For who would bear the sneers and mocks of men,
The neighbour’s shock, the lover’s curling lip,
The pangs of horrid stench, the *******’ o’erflowing,
The leaking **** orifice, and the drips,
Impatient strainings that the tragic farter makes,
When he himself might sweet easance make
With a careful prodding finger? Who would a ****-plug wear,
Grunting and sweating with noisome convulsions,
But that the dread of solids after air-release,
The undiscover'd oozings, from whose delivery
No toilet visitor recovers, puzzles the will,
And makes us bear the bellyache we have
Than fly to others we know not of?
Thus indigestion does make cowards of us all;
And then the native heave of constipation
Is sicklied o'er with the pale fear of defecation;
And enterprises of both ******* and crapping
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of exciting toilet action.

i sit and watch you and wait like a dog
always just two steps behind you and
always just begging you for scraps

as if two seconds of your attention
would be enough to fill my empty, empty stomach
as if two mere seconds would ever be enough

but you can't even give that-
my friends say i'm too nice and you just call out my name
and when i see that familiar self-satisfied smile on your face

i just become a bad liar and i just look the other way
and i go back to pretending like your bare minimum
is enough to fix my bellyache

MORNING HAS BROKEN
The men, in lines, ***** two by two,
forgetting all the women who
indulged them through a night of tricks
(their lips designed with crimson sticks,
their eyes a wild mascara mix)

and think instead on times ahead
when they’ll be gone, their bodies dead
(some rotting slow’, some mummified)
though once they were their mummy’s pride.

Attired bright in uniforms,
they strew their bombs in desert storms -
like melting sands, the sky deforms
with darkness, death - and doomsday swarms
through ravished lands where fires warm
the corpses, cold and puriform.

Their eyes flash forward towards the backs
of lucky ones who have the knack
of never being in the way
of bursts of bullets as they stray
(effacing phantoms faraway)
and dodging doom’s Redemption Day.

They’re wishing for a foggy morn
or best of all to be unborn,
and peering down to mark the sway
of wings in webs while spiders prey,

they wonder when their time will come
and they can cease their fleeing from
the sights they’ve seen, the deeds they’ve done,
the life they’ve lost, the death they’ve won,

then muse a while upon the child
they killed today when they went wild,
and when they’re finally reconciled
with broken bodies stacked and piled,

they ponder, does she have a kin
to curse them for their burning sin?

And if she does, will god reply
with tooth for tooth and eye for eye?

Or will her clan be mild and meek
and simply turn the other cheek?

2. MIDDAY MUSINGS
They’re counting steps to pass the time
and puzzle if they’ll reach their prime
or if instead they’ll serve the worm
their carnal flesh and aching *****

when soon, perhaps, they sleep in berth
provided by the chilling earth,
and fret about the fate they’ll find
below the stones that slowly grind.

And once or twice will come to mind
a sultry smile they left behind
(the distant past - a tepid trace –
another time, another place),
reflected in the gray grimace
that paints a frightened fading face.

And on they trek through guilt and gloom
to track their own and others' doom
and soon they’ll  grace another pool
with blood of other beings who’ll

inhale no more the evening airs,
unlike the wily Functionaires
who brutalize the fighting men
and send them far away and then

(relaxed, unwound, with victories made)
confer with sword an accolade
on those who’ve lopped bowed heads, with blade,
so someone bent must turn a *****

to hack a hole which then is filled
with all the cloven bodies killed
then cloaked with clay or loamy dirt,
as if to hide the pain and hurt.

3. TEATIME INTROSPECTION
Amongst the many are the few
who maim and **** and think it’s true
that purple war’s a parlour game
when really they’re submerged in shame
for crimes for which they are to blame
and can’t expunge with searing flame

while plodding through an endless time,
or pealing bells with holy chime,
or posing in a paradigm
where paradox and riddle rhyme.

And when they die (as die they must),
forevermore their putrid dust,
still soaked with gore and carmine lust,
will conjure thoughts of cold disgust.

And even though torrential rain
(which tastes at times like cool champagne)
can wash away the scarlet stain
which soaks the sands of god’s terrain,

it cannot ever cleanse the hands
that work the guns and burning brands,
or purge the throats that give commands
to him who never understands.

Nor can the raging hurricane
from blackened souls the white regain,
rescind the sins or void the banes
or loose the ****** from Satan’s chains
who line the pits of hell’s domains.

4. EVENING REFLECTIONS
When through the day to night they pass,
their eyes avoid the looking glass
displaying dim a pale phantasm
plunging deeper down a chasm,
surging through a blood ******,
smiling thin unveiled sarcasm

for the chances lost to taste
the many fruits that went to waste
when each was still a joyous lad,
who went to school and learned to add
and danced in rivers, barefoot clad,

attended church with mom and dad
(which tends the poor and cheers the sad),
to pray for good and curse the bad,
before, in war insanely mad,
he fought the fight (no Galahad)

by flinging flames and slashing throats,
immersing bods in  midnight moats
between the broken battered boats
where babes and booted bodies float,

and leaving bags of bones to bloat
in bullet-ridden overcoats,
and wondered if the goblins gloat
or spot (behind his eyes, the motes),

then strode away without a thought
that mortal lives had come to naught,
sedated by his conscience brought
to nothing more than dripping snot,
while Others sit upon a yacht
and pluck the eyes of fish They’ve caught,

for, when they die, fish seem to see
The Ones behind the tyranny
(with bellies round from gluttony)
in future dangling from a tree
(with leaves as black as ebony),
for that’s, They fear, Their destiny.

5. MIDNIGHT DREAMS**
At night the soldiers sometimes dream
of many things which make them scream,
like
                      floating down a gelid stream
             with burning flesh and cold ice cream
             upon their lips, which makes it seem
             as though their salt they can’t redeem
             when looking back at bold extremes
             of valiant warriors’ victory schemes.

Or ofter yet,
                      they sometimes meet
             a broken skull upon the street
             with gaping eyes, its mouth replete
             with swollen tongue that can’t repeat
             mere words of joy when lovers greet,
             or yell aloud or indiscreet’,

             or talk about the grand deceit
             of Those Who live on Easy Street,
             Who plot, destroy and overeat,
             while others bide beneath a sheet
             on bed of steely cold concrete,

             with final gift a flag or wreath
             that soon will wither like their teeth
             when once they’re settled underneath
             a mound of muck on mouldy heath,
             to lurk in Limbo Land beneath.

And ever more before they wake,
appear quaint dreams not quite opaque,  
like
                      upside down upon a lake
             keeps popping up a pregnant Drake
             who says “there must be some mistake,
             I only have a bellyache”,
             while high above’s a flying Snake,
             (a sight to make a killer quake).

             She cries aloud “for mercy’s sake
             your foresight’s blind, your wisdom’s fake
             the fragile bodies that you break,
             impale or burn upon a stake,
             then stack in layers like a cake,
             reflect a lust that death can’t slake”.

             And turquoise Turtles on the make
             (though taking time to overtake,
             each slurping down a chocolate shake)
             rev up to plead “let us explain,
             we think you men are all insane
            with morals thin as cellophane;

             for, peering through god’s window pane,
             we see quite clearly those you’ve slain,
             enough to fill the Dim Domain
             with blood and guts and tears and pain,
             Chimeras of a frenzied brain.”

             A worn and weary weather vane
             announces floods of claret rain
             that forty days and nights sustain,
             submerging mountains, raising Cain,
             while flushing mankind’s acid reign
             down nature’s evolution drain.

             The Serpent hails a hydroplane
             “because”, she hissed, “we can’t remain;
             behind the hill, the atom’s spark
             has vaporized the palace park,
             reduced to dust the Meadowlark
             and nullified the Rainbow’s arc”.

             And while the others hush and hark,
             a feline Toad begins to bark
             “This plane is certainly Boa’s Ark.

             Let’s flee the Human hierarch,
             forsake all Men to sate the Shark
             which swim within the Waters Dark,
             and purge all traces of the Mark
             in Eden when we disembark.”

             The beasts, in lines, by twos embark.

The dreamers wake, they’re staring, stark,
behind their eyes, a watermark.

For my mate Chris*

To sit around in anger…does no favours,
To bellyache to me… It’s all unfair,
To hope somebody else… comes up with answers,
To see the world’s shortcomings… flaunted there.


A lack of motivation keeps you grounded
Friends and family try to keep you at arm’s length,
You loathe the Government’s lack of comprehension
In that joblessness depletes your hope and strength.


You feel those carbohydrates clog your arteries
And see your muscled body turn to flab,
Discipline’s resolve flies to oblivion
And you curse all that… which makes your life so drab.


Disappointment curbs the high expectations,
You feel the planet owes you that, to which you seek,
Aghast to comprehend your own misgivings,
You feel the need to say…but then, you never speak.


Then suddenly… a stark, clear realization
That NOTHING HERE WILL CHANGE…UNTIL YOU DO,
Until you turn around your thinking to endeavour,
Till then that something that you seek… shall hide from you.


So look, my sweetness, look into the mirror
Shed the worry lines that always cloud your brow,
Kick your sorry **** profoundly to tomorrow
And lose the ****** shards of bitterness….RIGHT NOW!



Marshalg
Endeavouring to re-motivate a lost cause.
18 August 2012




© 2012 Marshal Gebbie

Gracious god, I Am
handcuffed to the bed
(white wine and
cigarettes)—
I will not forgive regrets.

This hornet’s nest, a home—
I choke on church bells,
starved of faith—
an empty sternum, bellyache.

Among the living dead,
I speak the language:
“Let me in!”
But I cannot betray my sin.

I’m sick and tired of people rabbiting on a load of ****
About their ******* duty and fighting for freedom
For the fat ugly patriotic selfish folks "back home"
And pathetic ****** neo-fascist ******* like that
And gabbling on a load of sentimental horsedung
About giving their all for their ******* useless country
When honestly they’d rather be at home in some ugly provincial hick town
Patting their nasty mongrel dogs and groping their neighbours’ wives' arses
And eating mumsy-wumsy’s over-cooked meat and stodgy apple pie
Whilst ensconced on the sofa watching sodding Celebrity Big Brother.

How can a soldier nowadays say he didn't want to be there?
Are people so ******* thick or blind or moronic not to realise
A person volunteers to be in the armed forces in most countries nowadays?
There’s no ****** press gangs or ****** conscription any more;
People become soldiers because they choose to do so
(exceptions include filthy neo-**** ****-holes like Israel
where the young men queue up to **** Palestinian babies for fun) .

Therefore soldiers DO want to fight, they DO want the chance to ****
And they willingly risk their own ugly unwashed redneck necks.
So they have no right to whine and bellyache when they get asked
To earn their daily state-paid bread and do a spot of killing
Instead of sitting on their overweight arses at MY expense.
Or course, they could show some real guts and resign instead,
But what the ****, why pass up on a chance to do some
Legalised ****** and get paid handsomely at the same time.

Just in case you think I forgot, I am totally and fully aware
That 'he' includes 'she' in this context now that women
Have an equal chance to have their military buns blown off pointlessly.
So don't whinge or expect sympathy when your body parts come home in a bag.
Personally, I am of the belief that the only good soldier is a dead soldier,
And the more the merrier. RIP military thugs and up yours.

The kids they just keep coming
and knocking on my door
expecting tons of candy
then a bellyache I'm sure!
The Mummy, Count Dracula, Frankenstein too
Cruella and Yoda and Sweet ****** doo
I love all their costumes, there's been no sight finer
'cause I used to trick or treat in a bin liner!

give me a break
from the seas rough
I greed a bellyache
badly need to laugh!

for too long weathered
a stormy bumpy ride
I need a breather
bare a guffaw wide!

give me a break
give me a break
life is burdened enough

give me a break
not give a heartache
I badly need to laugh!

been too long bowed down
with the pangs of grief
needs himself this clown
a laugh’s relief!

long buzzed this head
with the groans of pain
this heart has bled
time and again!

*give me a break
give me a break
life is burdened enough

give me a break
not give a heartache
I badly need to laugh!

i feel the density
the scarcity
of being me
not one to wait around
but suddenly this girl's a tree

of void
hey now let's contemplate
half empty?
no, half full today
congested is my current state
the chips fall
anywhere they may

i want to whisper
and have nothing coming
from the place of  (sigh)
I want a glimpse of what its like
to have the thought erase
and ( sigh)

I am not asking
to be mute, though you may
entertain the thought
be nice to simply hear
not what I'm thinking
more like what you've got.

i feel the silence
hear the sound  
inside my head it's humming
not short of pleasant but
much better to accompany
your strumming.

a conversation taking
place
an understanding in my soul
an instrument of perfect grace
i'll hand it to you
make me whole

forgive my talking  
nightlights glimmer
something i can't shake
my longing dear
is just to simmer
down to give and take

I love the feeling
when you're moved
about my bellyache
your comfort's soothing
teabag something
makes my honey quake

not knowing how or when
or why or is just the way it sometimes goes
to trust an answer
never comes
but known to God
whose loving shows..

steam from the coffee ***
brings more than this
it's coffee's kiss
beans roast by foreign hands
in foreign lands
brought me to this...
XO

I'm not complaining
right now
about life
but I really do
have a bellyache

so sometimes
like this morning
I get to *******
about the way
things are going

but then
I fix up
the *******-up thoughts
and it gets better
or so I think.

Dear Me,
You have always been enamored of language and vocabulary,
But your words are better suited for shaking the earth at a slam
Then writing your own obituary.
Is it not true that you have been unimpressed with every suicide note you’ve ever written?
What compels you to believe you’d do it better this time?
Dear Me,
We’ve courted suicidality like an ill-fitting suitor for enough years to recognize
The red flags by now.
Isn’t it time we stopped accepting pale apologies for the bruises it has left on our psyche?
“I am sorry” means little when it’s written in your own blood.
“It’ll never happen again” is a futile phrase when uttered more than once.
You used to believe that abuse was the price of being loved,
And should we not retire that sentiment?
Dear Me,
They told me to make peace with the fact that I may always want to die,
But you always wanted sugar as a child,
And what did that give you but a bellyache?
It’s not required to indulge your every whim.
Contrary to your own belief,
The thoughts will not **** you.
The last ten years of your life are proof that you can deny this demand.
Think of it like a work order,
A request that you repair yourself.
The goal is not that you never teeter on the edge.
It’s that you know in the end,
It isn’t a viable option.
Dear Me,
I used to think that “nice girls” never wanted to **** themselves,
But I’ve met a lot of “nice girls” who’ve sought a way out.
This desire is not a commentary on your value as a person.
You can be kind and broken and worthy at the same time.
Being happy is not a contingency of being whole.
Dear Me,
You’ve borrowed time the same way some borrow clothes,
Trying on different ages to see what fits,
Wondering what 60 is going to look like on you
When you haven’t grown into your 20s yet.
Your jeans from when you were 15 no longer hang in your closet,
And that proves you can take anything to the thrift shop when you outgrow it.
Dear Me,
I know you’re tired of these seemingly endless circles,
But you were told that mental illness is like a spiral staircase.
You still spin around even as you climb.
You are not the same person as the last time you wanted to die.
This moment is proof that you have changed despite feeling stuck in the same spot.
Dear Me,
It isn’t your job to befriend every lonely being in this world.
The Reaper will be fine if you tell him to make his own acquaintances.
You do not owe him your time and affection.
It isn’t your job to answer his calls.
Let it go to voicemail.
Dear Me,
I am not angry that we’re here again.
This is a love letter to the part of you that wants to die.
It is understandable to wish for an end to this pain.
You are still mine when you’re hurting.
I love you for all the times you’ve wanted to call it quits
And still showed up for practice the next day.
I pray that one day that kind of strength is unnecessary,
But never let it be said that you weren’t strong when it counted.
Dear Me,
We are in this together,
And I am never letting you go.

In early morning birds are yet to wake,
Their wings flutter in noises from trees.
Crows in some trees blurt out from
The disturbed sleep of a few of them.
It is now the ambient dark of morning.
One hears a motor sound that comes
Piercing from sleep-weary basement
For the water to flow in our bathrooms.
This sort of darkness touches heart
In a tender expectant way of rising sun.
Sleep feels restless on creaking beds
Of people for whom morning is night.

Steeped in poetry, it is just that day’s death
And dreams of finely bound poetry volumes
That defined morning over soft keystrokes.
One tries to explore poetry and death together.
In the end death is poetry, when it is not real
In the hospitals and lonely parks in left cities.
Death is fine poetry as after-fact and bellyache.

Later, in morning walk there will be spring in the air
With the leaves flying on a breeze on the dusty road.
That is when I seek the poetry of thought words .

I feel like Billie is HEAVILY inspired by MCR and Frank Iero.
Examples:

Stomachaches = Album by Frank Iero
Bellyache = Song by Billie Eilish

"I'm Not Okay" = Lyrics/Song by MCR
"I'm not okay" = Lyrics from the song 'Listen Before I Go' by Billie Eilish

"I'm Okay" = Lyrics from the song 'I'm Not Okay' by MCR
"I'm Okay" = Lyrics from 'You Should See Me In A Crown' by Billie Eilish

Six Feet Down Under = Song by Frank Iero
Six Feet Under = Song by Billie Eilish

Don't you think so too?

In playing chess with death
Keep your visions in check
Scream to the high heavens
And get a moral bellyache

Serpents flutter in the sky
Dragons from another planet
Their song like fire spewed
And everyone loves their tune

A juggler’s ball
Suspended in midair
Death disguised as priest
Your confession he bears

The mustard seed moved the mountain
But my mountain is a demon who won’t budge
I’m in need of a miracle lever
That’s as silent as a heart’s grudge

there's a place that i go to
when i think of you
it has no address
but i know the view
the familiar face
that it belongs to
i can't replace
        Or separate
        Or numb this ache
that's caused by you
this heartache, bellyache, my headache
it's all for you
i had it in my mind
that i wouldn't fall for you
the miles between us
keep me far from you
but im there in my head
in the arms of you
i've tried to to abandon
the love that i feel
the dreams that i've had
the nights you've made me laugh
the thoughts that i think
trying to drive you from my thoughts
trying to sleep
but thoughts of you
won't let me

At times weird sounds
                     turn me on,
Like crying,
                     don't always mean I 'm sad,
or eating too many cotton candies
             does not always make me bellyache,
I whine!
         Big Heart just aches
and ain't always
           beating on time!

Vu. { as long as any story's told wrong}

- suffer not a novice to teach

No bet. Nothing wagered, no pledge to be paid,
no bet was made between the unspeakable name,

core processing access id-entity… we'll call Truth.
And time, if there were a wager, Truth be against Time.

- thus we develop a worth for attention.

The way life works super resiliently, bouncing back
after starry chaos leaves a constant possibility
for truths beyond our scale of instant relativity
to manifest as seems with none the wiser,

the sun could flick us from existance, and be
acting as naturally as all such suns act
after a while, maybe

seven minutes ago.
---
listening to me bellyache and moan,
woe is me I am good for nothing.

Hmmm. I could just die, but then, there
would be just cause to believe me selfish,
and selfish is something I try not to be, in fact.

Information flow, twists awry through held truths,
never taken apart to reset the spring.

Nietsche was wrong about a lot of things.
Knowing he had a voice he could
convince himself was otherwise,
he had a real raw idea of God.
That's good.
Not useless, mostly used up. Flame.

That's what the real old *** in me said.
Fretting naught,
letting go all wishery wasery,
growing old effortlessly,
be causing, as wishes are supposed,
sup-post,
same as prayers properly aimed, to
be collected to be
be answered, as information related
to pain in the brain or heart, or core
mental effort processing part, which
detects and destroys the infecting barb.
Just in time.
Release relief, unbelievable lies,
pile into icy dams, late spring
in truth
past all thorny issues,
life is not intentionally difficult,
ants - the super colony kind
run vast ecology balancing systems,
on auto pilot, pure intuitive duty drives.
On a global scale, spreading without war.

We can see we can be better rich than poor.
We can see we live on a wet ball spun
along a spiral in a spiral in a spiral, and so, on
and on and on, looping the grand loop, a little
farther along than last time,

our eyes have seen the glory, our children
can imagine thought speed, information passing

as time carries matters to gravitationally bound
points past which nothing is ever the same,

because you, cause me, to cause you to imagine
we share a plane conscious level,
as we stare across the heavens from JWST,

just adjusting reasonable focus, is it asking
too much? Asking to effect the healing
with truth that cannot be denied, and be truth
indeed…

Whatsoever, whensover, so today is fine,

infinitely fine, as a whole time bit, with us in it.

Who arranged the world's laws of nations,
?
not men in my general class, retired disabled
boys used in immoral warfare, and paid glory

and allowed to march in war winner parades,
even though, Wounded Knee and My Lai,

fester under America's Exceptional Blessing.

Agricultural superfluity, aided by machines,
and the modern incarnation of king control,
usurious
war debt, cost of plunder,
always need latest enemy detection tech.
- Confidential is above us all down here.

Who you gonna call to collect on reneged
deals, see the big picture, be visionary,
wars are lost for want of a nail, a nail
that woulda been seen missing, if the smith's
bills had been paid in time for precharge inspection.

Who allows evil to prosper,
who prospers from peace never made?

imagine you're the powerful and magnificent
leader of North Korea, or a Metro-mega Church.

You quote Lincoln, and agree with the great
promoters of idle time boredom prevention,
knowing you can fool some of the people,
all of the time. And some of the people
a predictable percentage of the time,

and all the people, after a while.  

Oakridge radiant Gospel,
"you listen too long
  you do eventually die."

- and thus it came to pass
- none found fusion, pfft.
Deep mindtimespace silence

Nonsense to any, therapy to me,
the effectual fervent prayer,

which is really
closer to need announcing, auto
awareness, missing pieces, up
ethos more or
pathos, up path of logos,
as winds winding times
recurrency circuits
up right
is not.
Down is not. Here is midway,
midterm… middle distance
**** sapien augmentedus
in the net spread
in the sight of radio beacons.
submicrowave accuracy,
acutron concept of counting
seconds worth of your attention

Practically stretched
past tensile strand strength

stretching to a C-note,
harmonica

calling all my musing friends,
come hang with me,
in my tree.

In the forest of humanity,
the ant intuitive interconnecting -umph
-- last stack, let patience prove possession --
---- Pa-airing Suckacessfull…
Yeah, blue tooth vestibular augments.
-- I can hear birds now.
Who is on war's side, if this were after
I made my case and closed it,
this is the future when we have
global access to once secret libraries.
5g- ****… radio directly individuated,
as once first accounts were coded, so
now, we are our comm device's user,
we filter using truths we used
and proved just so, we lived

asking truth to show itself in ways
a mortal who labored fifty years,
could be led to expect, jubilee,
boom,
I am free, and I am not uncomfortable,
U may read my mind and find news,
formed from used theories untwisted,

and stretched to the extent of one man's
heart fire, expanded with knowledge,
edified with activated agape, lief be,

take a second, what's such a bit of being
left alone, at second glance, become,

some kinda curious thing, clap trap.

****, all wishery is yours, it's time again,

to review the prayer/wish fullfillment section.

Did you, dear, oh, dear, what, what makes
dear the lessons life teaches for your attention,

no price, a quote, a song
"Come, all you who are thirsty,
come to the waters;
and you without money,
come, buy, and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk
without money and without cost!"

Isaiah 55, thriving on hope deferred,

refer again to the references,

decide yourself if you believe James I of England
was at any point a person you could work for?

My task is not to teach, unless my life proves
worth my continuing continuance, thinking

plinking, *** shots, clang… in the olden days,

when a family could live by a prentice knack,  
for taking things  apart, to play new roles,

as whole days that may be shared with wary
few, readers readied by experience, to become

as ware, soft, observant, paying eyeservice,
alert for entertaining clap traps when we all laugh.

Okeh, in a dark bijou-kiva, place where aspirations
are presented to the gathered together
to be entertained, de-brained, turned off, and

let be so, the picture show, as it were,
in the so esoterical initial induction, holiness exposed.

It is all in what you did not know, that makes
what you know now, worth living
through.

Yep. Fishing for a whole reality blessing
as living water
does occur to us as time,
we live in the flow, but we row,

because war rules the world we were born in,
and all the churches of messages etched in spirit,
written in light, of course, as on the silvered screen,
live to preach divine rights as old as lobsters's
stacking urges…
tapping scratching

And fire and memories paradiddling
cloudy smoky misty
shapes and shades noise uselessness knowing inspiring
zingers written on the door post, for good luck.

I read a coloring book, once, at a mall, in La Jolla.
"Grandma keeps a Kosher Kitchen" had a scene
to color yourself into, as a curious child noticing,
the little thing Grandma touched as she came in
from the garden of herbs and flowers for bees,

"what is that for?"
In the uncolored coloring book, it was so nonchalant,
"Good luck."
Grandma's grasp the lucid concept.
- food you know not of, love… luck
Thanks given. Praised be.

Long stories, should only be told as true,
if you, personally… lived to tell it, with no sugar on it.

Bitte, Schön. And so it goes. Kosher us, unclean other.

And what am I? Wild child left between the pillar
and the post of an aspiring great man, whose hopes

were dashed, when he crossed a line, in other peoples
ways of sealing soul stealing redemption agreements,

with a shotgun one potential solution…

by the grace of good luck from any source such
luck appears to have kept me breathing, aimlessly

as I imagine a spirit might decide, in truth, one breath
let go , allows a sense to follow, as glowing cardboard ash,
as the teller zones across old causes fought for and won,

which winning needs another singing, which cheek
this time? Which last laugh is led upto, now,

as I acknowledge the precious readers who form
the recognostic think thank thing,
deja deja

Thought I might wake with
something more than bellyache,but
No,
Today the only way I go is
down.

London,
what a dreary town,
what kind of place is this to be?
this whirlpool of woe is
a mistral of misery.

Smoking now,
smoking,
how I wish the flames would bite,
ignite and in the inferno, would be
somewhere
where I'd go
quite
willingly.

the red is far too deafening -
shut palms around my ears
and yet the world is on screaming fire.
my finger joints crack in my eardrums
while the sunflowers roll in the mud.
firecracker red; fire engine red
took a nap in a sack,
the sun never goes away.

if i may i would turn to pray
to a man up in city hall
where the crowds prey,

i'm asking for a bellyache from hunger,
a shadow to leave my body -
not quite the youthful sunshine
with flaming ash in the air.

please be quiet - you're neither
the hysterical patient, nor
one who needs the normalising
medicine - you would not wish.
it is growing on me, much like
a generous parasite.

If I open my eyes, I will be awake.
I am awake; I don’t want to open my eyes.
Even though dawdling in bed is unwise
it is a bad habit I have yet to break.
If I were a morning person, I would shake
off sleep’s sluggish cloak and arise
fresh as a daisy; my arms open to the skies
and greet sunrise without the bellyache.

Up here on the Iron Range
Where the skies are blue
And the air is cool,
There are those who say
Let's go back to the old way
When mining was king.
And the people still sing,
Our families need the mine
Just like the old time.
What they don't know
Is that ain't so.
The new mines would spew
Sulfuric Acid anew;
The waters would ache
With a big bellyache;
The fish will die
And the people will cry.

Nothing's ever what it seems,
I wait around 'cause in my dreams,
you're something more than what I am
not Spam 'n eggs, green eggs or ham

but what I've dreamed in slumber's car
is not beyond the farthest star
but just above the highest cloud
where frozen skies can't scream out loud

or laugh or cry or live or die
or touch the apple of His eye
or grasp a thought, and catch a smile
or take a nap and rest a while

or lie outside in fresh cut grass
the summer sun, the day to pass
and when I'm rested, let it go
autumn comes and then the snow

life is short, and I am smitten
but hardly had the fruit been bitten
anger cuts the evening short
hopes and dreams meet TV sport

angry tones, a hot debate
and deep-set hurt will always wait
words are spoken, much regret
at least you're free now from the net

darkness comes but evening's fires
thaw the chill, and warm desires
hope for love, a life so sweet
calms the rage and stirs the heat

not so fast, the damage done
the fear rekindled in His son
faith moves mountains, this one still
cannot be moved beyond his will

all I wanted, something good
something blessed, a God who could
give me more than fleeting hope
far beyond my simple scope

and looking at that brightest star
reminded what a fool I ARE
I wish I may and wish I might
not have the thing I had tonight

to leave it to the Greatest One
is often hard and not much fun
less difficult, yet worse to take
is love's enormous bellyache

reminded there's a better plan
a place within His loving hand
and taken there one autumn day
the dream's allure just fell away

what I had thought 'true love' would be
far less than what He has for me
with oneness as it's greatest goal,
forgives the hurts and heals the soul

How did we even meet?
This relationship is sweet
It’s the work of destiny
The mixture is sugary but deadly

You are so cold
But my heart is warm
You are mature
And I am a dork

The milkshake is white
But you turn it black
I made it bright
Then your darkness attacks

Our couple is like a black milkshake
Beware of the bellyache

How is it
When you’re lost
Alone
Trembling
Scared
I can’t be there?
And why does it make me so angry?
So hurt
It touches me physically
Head throbbing
Stomach lurching
The bellyache of despondency and guilt.

Contact or combat?
You shouldn’t have to fight for your life or your rights
You need to be free
Come be here
Be with me
You’ll be safe I promise
Just lay in my arms and sleep
Peace

Peace when we’re alone
Nobody else in this whole world
Just me and your eyes
Those beautiful eyes
And your smile
Those lips
Those soft lips
And your hands holding mine
Head to head
Heart to heart
The beat like drums on fire
But a million butterfly wings just the same

How is it that for you I feel all the emotions
Infinitely
When I can’t even feel them for myself?
Day and day I spend as one empty canvas
Emotionless
Dead batteries
But suddenly
You talk and my brain lights up
Sparks an explosions of color
Say anything
Say everything

Your words paint me a blue sky
A lightning storm
A tsunami
A crackling fire
Leaves on the trees
Birds on the branches
Take that oak and build me a house of color
Take me in and never let me go

Because of you I know it all
Each emotion hits so brutal and raw
Burning
Or calming
The waves crash on the sand
Or the wind blows through my hair so swiftly as I breath in the taste of paradise

Don’t take this wrong
You don’t make me mad
You give me vital emotions of life
I could never be mad
Not at something that shows me the beautiful thoughts
Ugly, strangling, happy, sad, overwhelming, beautiful
Because these are the living emotions
And I lived without them for so long

You want me to write poetry for you?
Because that's what I'll most likely do.
I wish we have at least kissed at once
You gave me a bellyache that can't be undone
I whisper your name as I fall asleep
With hopes that with it, my phone will lit and beep
21st century romance, we built friendship
in this web of lies, our hearts colder than ice
You said your body will be mine
But it's everyone else's, I was late to the races

They're cancelling us out
and
this is what this is about,
the cancelling out,
wiping the slate clean
and what does that mean?

Erasure?

when it's all gone
the socialising,
the eating pies in Greggs
the pint in the pub
sometimes with pub grub,
what will we remember of anything
other than what we've been fed.

my biggest turn-on is
severe emotional problems
(apparently)
yes daddy
put the fear of God into me
make me wonder if you might snap
& **** me one day
make me lay in bed alone
with an anxiety bellyache
wondering if you even love me or
am i just here to stroke your
ego
when everyone else is busy
yes papi
you do know how i like it don't you
don't worry baby,
of course you're a good man
how could i tell you otherwise when
i love you so much?

am I the monster?

pitiful, broken boy. vile creature. twisted soul.

it all feels a bit trite now. I used to fill pages upon pages with that. a ceaseless wave of self-loathing. I wanted to do that tonight. I wanted to hurt myself. I wanted to tear myself to pieces. just like the old days: endless tirades into whatever abyss presented itself. notes and poems, blogs and songs.

I even carved it into my skin.

"MONSTER" "PERVERT" "FREAK" "EVIL"

if you look closely you can still see the faint outlines of names I gave myself from my hips to my thighs.

but scars fade.
wounds heal.
tablets work (and stop working), counsellors work (and stops working), friends leave (and stop leaving),

nothing stands still. that once constant hum fades into the distance.

a new song takes its place.

just look at all the hope left in its wake...

all the friendships maintained. all the relationships built. all the late night calls and car rides to the beach. all the conversations and arguments. all the half-baked ideas and plans to change the world. all the cups of tea and petrol station tray bakes. all the last minute events. all the bickering and creating. all the faces glowing. all the plane, train, bus, and bike journeys. all the phone calls answered. all the wounds bandaged. all the ambulance trips and hospital visits. all the falling outs and friend drama. all the heartbreak and bellyache. all the pain and confusion. all the *** and prayer. all the tears and laughter. all the board games and secret shames. all the friends lost and friends gained.

there are lives worth living, and people worth loving.
my life did not end at 16, when I committed a crime and shattered the world.
no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I bled, I could not change what I had done.

but it is done.
all of it.
and many, many years later, I think I can finally begin close a chapter of my life.

after all, hope grows in the cracks.

Caramel melting in my mouth,
this poem wasn’t even meant to be about you,
I don’t know your name,
but the kiss was so good I can’t forget you,
baby,
you moved away,
like a tide or a wave,
I forgot you existed,
sweetness sickness,
I still have that bellyache,

my swiftness was your fuel,
jewel to your paper crown,
and you just tasted like,
the caramel latte that I bought on my way from work,
the chasers left the town,
and Venice was my home,
I never thought of you a single time on my way from work,
my tastebuds didn’t work,
Cinnamon all night long,

but you have a blank page in my lovers textbook,
I saved colorful pens if I will ever find you,
blue sky,
red fire,
and cotton candy clouds,
everything seems normal without you,
some days
I think
how all this time
I was living happy without you,

the love songs,
with no addressee,
keep being sang back at me,
but I have stuff
to care about
more than I do currently,

caramel flowing from candy,

you are not mine and never were,

I **** at storytelling,

hurt and free to go.